Turkeys make you work

A lesson well-learned on first long beard

It was a cool April morning, several springs ago. The dogwoods had bloomed, the crappie were spawning and, even better, there were five tom turkeys around us gobbling to greet the rising sun. Inside of the next two hours I would learn to honor and respect the wild turkey, and to admire the men and women who work hard to hunt them.

Turkey hunting is one of those sports that must be experienced to be fully understood. Until you’ve had a mean ol’ gobbler strutting full fan in front of you, spitting as if to cuss you and drumming to announce his eagerness to, well … uh, how can I put this … to mate with you, it is impossible to comprehend the setting.

This is the story of the day I found that out, and seems fitting with Mississippi’s spring turkey season set to open on Saturday (March 15).

In search of beards and stories

It was mid-week, six days into a 10-day road odyssey that carried me from one end of the state to the other, one side to the other, in pursuit of my first long beard. I had been guided by some of Mississippi’s best hunters over some of the most productive turkey woods in the state, the turkeys were pitching a shutout. I was a tired, weary, sleep-deprived and whipped puppy, ready to write about spawning crappie.

The last stop was in Jefferson County with Chuck Jones and Ronnie Jolly, who were both cameramen for Jackson-based Primos Inc., at the time.

After two unsuccessful hunts, Jones was determined that I was going to kill a gobbler no matter what. It was his duty, he felt. He called a friend in Fayette and arranged a hunt on a farm surrounded by steep bluffs and ridges.

There we were, 5:15 a.m., on new ground. The sun was beginning to light the east and Jones had five gobblers responding to owl hoots. We took after the most active and walked a mile around a field to get to him. Of course, he shut up by the time we arrived and never made another sound.

“With hens,” Jones said, “we’re screwed.”

We backtracked through the field to the center of the property and Jones let loose with a series of cuts on the loudest tube call I’d ever heard. One distant gobble echoed back from the hills surrounding the pasture.

“That’s the only game in town, Bob, and he’s in those hills,” Jones said, knowing it would be tough work and a lot of hard walking to get to him. “You up to it?”

Ridge, after ridge, after ridge …

Off we went. We crossed a creek and did a near vertical climb up the first ridge and stopped. Jones cut and the gobbler answered from the second ridge, and he was moving away. We could hear hens with him.

We topped the second ridge, which was vertical. My heart was pounding, my lungs working overtime and my head throbbing. Jones called and the bird answered again, this time from the third ridge.

When we made it to the top of that ridge, Jones cut loose, and, yes, the bird was on the fourth ridge. Man, I was spent. And I knew we were still going to have to climb our way out of there, bird or no bird. From the fourth ridge, we called and the gobbler shook the trees with his response. He and his harem were behind us, back on the third ridge. Jones said we had only one chance so we stopped and got ready.

The ridge was too vertical for us to sit, so we had to lie down. Jones cut and the dominant hen with the gobbler responded.

“It may just work,” Jones said.

He started playing to the hen instead of the gobbler. He’d call and when she’d answer, Jones would cut her off. The more he did, the madder she got. It took 30 minutes but she finally got a gizzard-full of it and came looking for some hen butt to kick.

Meanwhile, the gobbler was getting more excited, gobbling to every call. The strategy was working. The mad hen was coming and the gobbler was following. Down the third ridge they came, about 15 turkeys in all — one gobbler, 12 hens and two jakes.

The lead hen was running and cutting, and I was numb. My legs had long ago lost their feeling. My neck muscles were cramped but I managed to get the shotgun up and hold it in position for the final 10 minutes. The last bird to show was the gobbler, and he came on the wrong side of the only tree between us. I had to move the barrel six inches and a jake saw me.

He putted anxiously and took off with the other birds behind him. Jones went crazy, hammering away on a True Double Two call and rustling the leaves and pine straw with his hand. It was a drastic measure that worked.

The old gobbler just couldn’t stand the thought of a hot hen getting away and had to take one last look. He strutted out from behind the tree. I took aim, and said loudly, “You’re dead.”

At the sound, the old bird broke strut and raised his head to look. It was a classic pose and the perfect shot.

Know what? The walk out was an easy hike, hills and all, even carrying an extra 18 pounds of turkey.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Share your turkey hunting stories and other outdoor adventures with other Mississippi Sportsman readers by e-mailing stories and photos to Bobby Cleveland at bobbyc7754@yahoo.com.